So I did. Taking maybe five seconds, I rifled through its pages to see what I was dealing with.
It wasn't a standard portfolio. I might have called it a photo album, except it wasn't limited to photos. Along with various snapshots, it also contained a few news clippings.
There was one item per page, tucked in clear plastic sleeves. Each sleeve also contained a black sheet of paper, serving as a frame for each item of interest. The items appeared to be organized in chronological order.
After my quick inspection, I returned to the beginning and gave the first item a good, long look. It was an old newspaper clipping. The headline read, "Tomato Festival Draws Record Crowds."
The newspaper's name was the Hazelton Bee. I knew this because the story had a byline. The story wasn't long, maybe ten paragraphs of festival highlights.
But it wasn't the story itself that interested me. It was the corresponding image.
In it, a pretty blonde with a strong resemblance to Mina held a baby in her arms as she gazed out over a small carousel – only six horses total – populated by laughing toddlers.
According to the caption, one of those kids was named Timmy Lipinski, and he was the son of the pretty blonde – a woman named Libby Lipinski of Lipinski Farms.
If the caption was to be believed, the baby was none other than Mina herself.
As I zoomed in on Baby Mina, I didn't know whether to smile or groan. She was dressed like a tomato, as if Halloween had come early.
Her blob of a dress was bright red with small black dots resembling tomato seeds. Her tights were green to match the leafy collar near her neck. On her head, she wore a bright red hat, topped with a bunch of green, leaf-shaped fabric.
The baby tomato was smiling at the camera, as if she liked being dressed that way.
Talk about messed up.
And yet, I still wanted to smile.
Or groan.
As I studied the picture, the adult Mina had remained standing at the edge of my desk. Now I could feel her eyes watching me, waiting for my reaction.
I gave her none.
Without looking up, I told her, "Have a seat."
As she claimed one of my guest chairs, I turned to the next page. This one contained a family photo taken in a carnival midway. A sign near the photo's edge said, "Tomato Giveaway, 3 p.m."
In this photo, Mina was now a toddler, sitting in a stroller being pushed by the same blonde as before. Next to the blonde stood a sturdy looking guy in jeans and a plaid shirt. The guy was big and bulky, like he lifted tractors for a living.
Mina's dad. Obviously.
His hair was light brown, and he was smiling like he meant it, as if there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
Both parents appeared to be in their mid-twenties, younger than I was now. As far as having kids, they'd obviously started early.
I turned a couple more pages and saw more of the same, with the addition of another baby – another little tomato, wearing the same costume that Mina had been wearing earlier. A younger sister.
I kept going and saw proof for every year of Mina's life. I had to give her credit. She'd delivered and then some.
I was surprised – not only by the fact she'd gone above and beyond, but also by the fact she'd been telling the truth. In my world, this wasn't as common as you'd think.
Maybe she wasn't quite as crazy as I'd thought.
After studying the final photo, one obviously taken last summer, I closed the book and looked back to Mina.
She smiled as if to say, "I told you so."
Yes. She had.
But if she thought this gave her the upper hand, she didn't know who she was dealing with.
I said, "What, no pageant photo?"
Her smile faded. "What do you mean?"
I gestured toward the portfolio. "Where's the photo from yesterday?" I gave her a significant look. "And I don't mean the bikini shot."
Her eyes narrowed. "Which really was an accident."
For the first time, I was tempted to believe her. Tempted, but not willing. "So you said. But that's not the photo we're talking about."
"I know. I'm just saying."
"No. You're not saying. So answer the question."
I wasn't sure why I wanted to know. But my curiosity was more piqued than it had been in a while. The pageant photo would've been solid proof that she'd attended in whatever year that was.
But she'd left it out. Why? Because she was runner up? Or because she'd already shown it yesterday?
It wasn't important. But the fact she was balking only fueled my curiosity.
Across from me, she said, "It's simple, really."
I doubted that.
She continued. "I didn't use it because I didn't need to. I had a different photo for that year."
The answer was fine enough, but unsatisfying for reasons I couldn’t quite decipher. "Yeah? Which one?"
"It was that picture with the truck." As she spoke, she reached out and reclaimed her portfolio. She flipped through it and stopped on a page near the back.
She returned the portfolio to my desk and shifted it around so the image would be right-side-up from my vantage point, not hers.
I'd seen the photo already. Still, I studied it again. It was a snapshot of Mina standing in the bed of a white pickup, surrounded by bushel-baskets of tomatoes. She wore cut-off jeans and a little white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid, and she was smiling for the camera.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her smile was playful.
She looked like every teenage boy's fantasy – a hot farmer's daughter who had no clue how beautiful she was.
But I was no teenager, and I wasn't about to be distracted.
I asked, "So, why'd you pick that one?"
"You mean the photo with the truck?" She hesitated. "I picked it because it was the right year."
Doubtful. Still, I replied, "And which year was that?"
"The year I graduated." She paused. "From high school, I
